


Unsuspected

by Lillielle



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Double Crossing, F/M, Gen, Horcruxes Should Not Be Played With, Horror, Mental Instability, Psychological Trauma, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 04:13:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lillielle/pseuds/Lillielle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disclaimer: I don't own HP.</p><p>No one would ever suspect Ginny Weasley.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unsuspected

She tiptoes down the steps, her movements quick but silent. She can feel her heart pounding in her chest, hear its frantic beat thudding in her ears. It's been so long. Too long. What if he is angry with her? What if he...punishes her? She catches her breath. Her bottom lip slides between her teeth again, worried until it is bloody once more.

No one will miss her. It is the middle of the night, and her curtains are spelled shut with a "do not disturb" notice. She has been staying up late all this week, studying, looking as harried as Granger with finals coming up. It will be no surprise to anyone that she wishes to have an uninterrupted night's rest for once.

Ginny Weasley pauses just before slipping through the crack in the front doors, her eyes scanning the shadows. She sees nothing, not even the lamp-light glimmer of Mrs. Norris's eyes, and a slight gasp of relief escapes her before she can stifle it. Nothing stirs. She smiles briefly and flits down the path like a shadow, aiming for the apparition point just inside the Forbidden Forest. 

A man is waiting for her there. She can't see his face. His entire body is muffled in thick black robes, the hood of his cloak casting everything else into darkness. His fingers burn when they close around her upper arm, but she does nothing but stand there as the world is shattered around her and comes together in a dizzying, melting rush of colours and textures. It nearly sends her to her knees. Her stomach heaves, and she presses her lips together firmly, relishing the slight sting of pain from her shredded bottom lip, until the nausea recedes.

"This way," the man tells her in a hoarse whisper, and she obeys, following behind him as promptly as a baby duckling. She doesn't know where they are. The edge of some other forest. The trees here are larger. Darker. The shadows are full of menace, caressing the edges of her shoes with darkness-laden purpose. She resolves not to fall behind.

It's been so long since she's seen him that for a moment, she doesn't recognize him when they finally stumble across the small camp in the middle of a broad, jaggedly cut clearing. Lord Voldemort. Tom. She stops for a moment, drinking in the sight of him with thirsty brown eyes, until the man who led her here pulls her forward with an impatient grunt. Her shoe catches on a stone, and she stumbles, murmuring breathless apologies as her guide rights her once more.

"Ah, Ginevra," Voldemort hisses, and she falls to her knees, unthinking. He has changed. His eyes are still the dark, ruby colour she remembers, his skin still icy pale and clammy-looking, as if he has just woken from a long and dire fever. But still. His body has grown more muscular, more toned. His robes actually fit now. They used to gape around him, drowning him in voluminious black fabric, like a boy playing dress-up with his father's clothes.

"My Lord," Ginny whispers, unable to stop herself from reaching out and caressing his robe hem with shaky fingers.

"Leave us," he commands the rest of the Death Eaters and like smoke, they melt away. She knows that they are still there, hidden amongst the trees, but for the moment, she can pretend they are alone.

"It has been too long," Voldemort--Tom--says, and Ginny hangs her head, shame-faced. She knows it has. It has been forever, and she loathes it.

"I am sorry, my Lord," she replies helplessly. "It is hard to get time away. Hard to deflect suspicion. You know..." She trails off. He is suddenly there, right beside her, and his arms wrap around her, pulling her tightly against his side.

"I know," he murmurs into the vibrant red cloud of her hair. His breath stirs the hairs on the back of her neck, warm and faintly redolent of some kind of spice. "I am not chastising you, Ginevra. You do very important work for the cause, keeping an eye on Potter." He spits the name like an epithet, and Ginny shudders in agreement.

"Pretending I fancy him, too," she mutters, revolted. "As if I ever could when I know you."

"He is a boy," Voldemort sneers, gripping her face with long, cold fingers and turning her to face him. "A prideful, arrogant boy. But he will learn, yes. And soon. And then, my little Genevra, you can openly support me, instead of having to lurk in the shadows."

A fevered half-sob catches in her throat at the thought of that day, and she peppers his face with kisses, marveling at her audacity, yet unable to stop herself. Thankfully, this blatant show of affection amuses him, and he returns her kisses whenever she crosses his mouth, his lips cool and dry against hers, reminding her of a snake.

He spends hours whispering to her, reminding her of their plans, of her loyalty. Touching her with those gentle, bone-white hands. Losing the thread of his words when she finds a sensitive spot on his collarbone, or down by his hip.

Ginny never expected this to happen. When she wrote in his diary, when he possessed her, she found herself drawn to the mysterious, hard-eyed boy. Tom Riddle. His words enthralled her, even as they terrified her. When the diary was destroyed at the end of the year, she was both relieved and saddened. She'd thought that chapter of her life long over.

Until Lord Voldemort rose again in her third year, and she began seeing him in her dreams.

He looked different, almost monstrous, with glaring crimson eyes, a snake's slit of a nose, and corpse-chilled skin, but he still enthralled her with the same, half-rapturous pull his young counterpart had created. It had only been a matter of time before she had sneaked off under some flimsy pretext and seen him once more. The rest, as they say, was history.

The sun is beginning to colour the sky when Lord Voldemort finally tells her that it's time for her to go back. She is pouting, reluctant, staring at him with luminous dark eyes, her lips swollen and red with his kisses, her body dotted and decorated with his marks. She wants him. She wants to stay with him so badly, it stings like salt rubbed in a fresh wound with a careless hand that she must go back and dance attendance on the Boy Who Lived.

"You will do it, Ginevra," he finally tells her sternly and she subsides, shrugging back into her robes and attempting to tame her hair back into some semblance of order. It would not be so bad, but he so likes to tangle his hands in it.

"Soon, Ginevra," he whispers in her ear as another black-robed man approaches to take her back. She has no idea if it's the same one as before, or another one. "Soon. The world will never suspect what you are capable of, my love, but I know. I always know."

"Yes, my Lord," she gasps out as the world whirls away in a nauseating rush of colours once more, and she is unceremoniously dropped at the edge of the forest. It is a long walk up to Hogwarts, and she must hurry if she wishes to slip into bed before anyone else gets up, but she doesn't mind. Contentment colours her face, leaving a warm glow somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.

Soon she will be with her love, and no one, not even Harry Potter, will be able to stop them.


End file.
